Tom Riddle's Ghost
by smilingcrescent
Summary: Harry should have been concentrating on Sirius Black. But over the winter holidays, the dark grows deeper. There's something lurking in the corridors, and he doesn't understand what it could be. Excerpt: "What will you do, little Harry?" The voice was distorted- an echo. A high pitched ringing noise rang through Harry's ear, and he wondered if was hearing anything at all.
1. Stalking

This is a horror fic. It won't be slash, but that doesn't mean I don't write it...just not this one story. Set in Third Year.

Book Cover Image by me! See my deviantArt for the whole drawing. :) I got a beta! The lovely Brandi (CNGB) has betaed these chapters.

**Tom Riddle's Ghost:** A Harry Potter Ghost Story

* * *

Near curfew just before winter holiday, the library was an eerie place. It was almost as though it resisted any holiday cheer at all. Fewer students were in the library at all, with only a few hours left before the end of term.

For a moment, it seemed as though wind were blowing through the stacks. Harry looked up from his search, puzzled. There was never even so much as a draft in the library…was there a school ghost, or was it some student prank? Harry was tempted to use the Marauder's Map, just for the novelty of it, but there wasn't much use if he actually left before curfew.

The odd coolness passed, and the lights dimmed. Harry sighed. Buckbeak's defense would have to wait.

"Ron?" Harry called quietly. But Ron had already gone back for the night, sullenly recalling the promise he'd given one of his brothers to write a letter. Hermione had gone with him, thinking to do the same.

There was a clatter of something hard hitting the stone floor, followed by a hollow thump.

Harry started. "What…" he began, squinting into the stacks.

"Mr. Potter."

He whirled around.

It was the librarian, Madam Pince. She gave him a thin, unfriendly smile. "It's nearly curfew. You should head back to the Gryffindor Tower for the night."

Harry nodded, saying, "Yes, ma'am." He gathered his bags and rushed past her, feeling her eyes on him until he passed the threshold.

_Maybe Madam Pince is afraid of book-theft…_ he thought to himself. _Yes,_ he decided, that was it. Madam Pince was not in the mood to deal with students.

Somewhere in the castle, a door slammed shut. Harry jumped again.

It was a few moments before he realized it. Harry's footsteps were echoing. He noticed three turns from the library… Harry glanced around, wondering if he might be mistaking another's for an echo. But he was alone. No one in sight and stopped in the corridor; it was as silent as Hogwarts ever got.

Harry walked on. _There!_ It was back. Harry turned around in an instant, hoping to startle whoever was following him.

The sound of footsteps had stopped again.

Harry forgot all pretense of calm and ran, feet pounding on the flags.

The footstep echoes raced after him. Harry turned, hoping to see feet carelessly visible from beneath another Invisibility Cloak, but there was nothing. He clenched his teeth and made a decision; he turned around, skidding to a stop as he pulled his wand. Aimed.

"_Expelliarmus_!" he shouted, followed by "_Petrificus Totalus! Protego!_" each in a subtly different angle, as he braced for an attack that could come from any direction.

The footsteps raced, light and fast as a child's. They became louder and louder. _It's right here._ Harry thought as he was struck by a biting sense of cold. The air seemed to tremble.

Harry let loose another string of curses. He felt a gust—more of a gale, the way his hair and robes billowed around him, tearing his books and parchment from his arms.

The cold was as uncomfortable as it was unfamiliar. Then his scar throbbed first, and then an intense pain accompanied by that strange pulse of complicated emotion—something like hunger, mixed with curiosity?

Then it was gone as quickly as it started, his quills rolling to a stop.

The hallway was empty now, Harry was sure of it. Quietly, Harry collected his things and returned to the tower. But he was left with the surety that something happened—something he didn't understand.

_What's going on?_

* * *

**Part II**  
**X**

When Harry woke, he had the sensation he'd been running for a long time. He knew his heart was thumping wildly in his chest, and he felt…an echo of something else tapping heavily on his sternum.

He rolled on his side, squinting for his glasses and wand on the bedside table. But a whispered, "_Lumos_ lit enough for him to see, and he froze.

There were drops of blood on his pillow.

He scrambled for his glasses, and he put a finger to his lips. He tentatively tasted for the salty signs of a split lip or a chewed cheek, and brought a finger to his mouth. His hands came away clean.

"What…" he muttered. Then he shut his mouth tightly. _What if Ron woke up?_

Then he felt something: a slight pain behind his eyes, and a dizzy sensation. He grabbed his wand and frantically went over the possible spells he could use in case of attack, and thought of the only possible explanation.

"I've been cursed." he whispered, horrified.

_Drip._

Another spot on his pillow. He looked up, directing his wand at the canopies. There was nothing there.

But there was a sensation of drowning. The feel of something wet on his cheek. And again, in his ear, as though he'd been doused with water.

Someone's bed creaked.

Hesitantly, Harry wiped at his eyes. _Red._ His fingers were spotted with blood.

"_No!_" Harry hissed. He leapt away from his bunk with revulsion. He was bleeding from the eyes and ears. Bile filled his throat. _What kind of a curse…? Who…?_

His fingers trembled around his wand. Was it Black? Or had he somehow touched a cursed item?

_I can't stay here._ he thought. _Black…he's only after me. But I can't go anywhere._ A tempos spell revealed it to be barely three in the morning.

Ron mumbled and turned over in his sleep.

That settled it. _I'll lead him out._ Harry thought, distracted. He tried to block all thoughts of that unknown figure. The footsteps following him, the sensation of someone watching. That time hardly counted as a real threat, and Black…he might have found a way in. (*) Black, who had been responsible for the deaths of his parents, was a very real threat indeed.

Harry pulled his robes over him, not bothering to dress. He had to get out now. He'd lead the attacker away and corner them. If he got into the halls, one of the teachers would notice him, wouldn't they? Someone would see the murderous, _traitor_ous Black.

But something about the whole experience was strange. Harry clearly remembered Hermione's lectures on Hogwarts…_you can't Apparate in._ And Harry more than anyone knew what to look for if he suspected an Invisibility Cloak…there were no telltale signs. So. Could it be…something other than Black?

"But what?" he said.

Harry's vision was blurry. He wiped at his lenses, but it was to no avail. Nervously, he slipped out of the dormitory and into the common room. If he was playing bait…he shouldn't wear the Invisibility Cloak. But leaving it altogether...

"No, there's no time." Harry muttered, desperate to break the silence.

So he opened the portal slowly, drew his cloak up around his ears, and tried not to think about how cold he was. He stepped through.

"Who…" Sir Cadogan mumbled. (*) Indistinct mutterings and a small snore revealed he was half asleep.

But Harry could not hear. The blood was warm, and it slowly dripped onto his neck. He closed the door with a back-handed push, and flew past without facing the knight.

The night was dark, and his vision was blurry, and his socks too worn. As soon as Harry left the brightly lit dorm corridor and entered the hall, he realized how deep the night was when the moon hid behind heavy snow clouds. Harry walked on in the vague direction of the Hospital Wing, and his feet made little sound.

The feeling of being watched returned. No human sound greeted him—he shook his head, trying to clear it. There was no black or ominous figure to meet his sore eyes, and no attack to light the gloom. But he could feel that cold gaze on his neck, and then a chill rushed down his spine. As though a cold hand touched, no, grasped his heart, then clenched down on his arm.

Something flashed so brightly in front of him, his eyes stung and throbbed, but Harry couldn't be sure if it was real or not.

"Who's there?" Harry called, trying to sound confident. "What do you want?" Harry cringed in the dark, but there wasn't so much as a wind…

Harry wondered if the thing, whatever it was, couldn't speak. Or maybe it had some other way to communicate… "Are you part of the castle?" Harry chewed his lip. That wasn't the right question... "Are you trying to hurt me? No….that's even worse. Um...

"What are you? What do you want?" Harry burst out.

"Harry...Potter..." It almost seemed to whisper, and yet to howl, it sounded so angry. Or was it anguish? Loss? Harry backed up against the wall, taking reassurance from the cool, steady stone.

"What?" He wanted to deny its existence, to deny the very possibility of some _thing_ being there with him. But that was no longer possible, not in an ancient castle whose very walls were made of magic. "What do you _want?_" Less afraid now and more determined, Harry fingered his wand. His stomach calmed, though he could now taste the blood on his tongue. Had it dripped down from his nose? Or was he bleeding in more places than before?

"Wha...wha..what will you do, little Harry?" The voice was distorted, almost like an echo. A high pitched ringing noise rang through Harry's ear, and he wondered if he were hearing anything at all.

"This could be a dream. I could still be dreaming... a sort of waking dream or something... I bet if I cast a spell, you'll change into something absurd, but visible. Or just a regular monster..." Talking made the shivery feeling fade, made the feeling of being watched less pronounced. It didn't matter that Harry didn't really think he was dreaming.

He thought back to the Boggart Professor Lupin showed them back at the beginning of term. But Harry had only ever seen the Dementors…And Boggarts didn't make anyone bleed. Did Riddikulus work on anything else? It was worth a shot.

Harry stood up straighter and held out his wand. "Riddikulus!"  
The laughter was worse than the taunting words, swirling together in peals that soon became a maelstrom.  
His feet clacked against the stone floor. He hurtled down the hallway, no longer thinking of finding a teacher. The need to hide, to catch his breath, was overwhelming...he had to regroup, figure out what it was, and how to defeat it. _Right._ Harry thought to himself. _It doesn't look like it's Sirius Black after all...but who could it be? Another of Voldemort's followers?_  
He pushed against the door, and lurched to a stop. His glasses had slipped down to the edge of his nose, and his hair obscured one eye. The now familiar cold and sense of dread didn't stay confined to the hallways, however. Harry looked up wildly, searching for the source. He gave an involuntary shout of surprise as he caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror.  
There was only a dim light— perhaps left aglow for emergencies— and not the shining, glistening brightness he was accustomed to. Nothing was out of place, though. The mirrors and the hand sinks, and past that corner, Harry knew he'd see the toilet stalls. All was as it should be. And yet...  
His eyes flitted from mirror to wall. He'd seen a sort of shift, something less than a shadow, across one of the reflections. He squinted, dodged to the side in case of attack, and tried to stop his pounding heart.

A dark shadow fell across the mirror, but the shadow dripped and oozed- not a shadow at all. "Blood?" Harry felt the word catch in his throat.  
"You're going mad." the boy in the mirror said. "Of course there's no blood in a school bathroom…" the voice was smooth, mocking. He'd heard it before.

Harry stared. "You…"

"Let me in, Harry Potter." The boy pressed up against the glass, and it was overtaken with mist.

Harry's teeth began to chatter.

The boy's lips quirked just a bit. "What's the matter, Harry?" The feeling of cold intensified.

Harry blinked slowly. "I…." he started, "I know you."

The boy's eyes widened. He had nothing to say to that.

"Tom Riddle," Harry muttered, "you're dead. I killed you."

The boy frowned then.

"You can't take over my body, or Ginny's. The diary's gone!" he shouted, and his voice echoed up and down the hallway. He wiped the blood from his face.

"I'll think you'll find you're wrong on both accounts." Tom said quietly, and Tom Riddle leaned in.

Harry felt himself falling, and he wondered…if it were already too late.

* * *

tbc...

(**) The Fat Lady was gone from the Gryffindor Tower between October 31st to February 6th.

tbc. Next chapter: Riddle's Mind.


	2. Riddle's Mind

**Thank you** for all favorites, watches, and comments! You are all amazing! (Review again please? XD)

I got a beta! The lovely Brandi (CNGB) has betaed these chapters.

* * *

PS. Some of you asked if this will be slash? (As in Tom / Harry, boy x boy love). For this story: nooooo, **this is a gen fic / ghost story.** There be no kissing.

...if you want to see kissing, send me a note! Or you know, watch me. I'll write something slashy soooon. Very soon. Possibly later today. :D

* * *

**Chapter II:** _in the darkness, something waits_

(**Tom PoV: **events happen prior the first chapter)

Tom waited. The silence wore on him; it seemed as though the stars from the heavens (and the entirety of the castle) weighed down on him, though he could see precious little. Oppressive, the silence.

Then there was the dark. Stone walls that had stood the test of time were barely discernible in the great distance, so that even the shape of things was lost to him. After a time, he returned to the antechamber, where embossments of Slytherin's greatest triumphs were recorded for the stone to protect. There, he noticed the unthinkable—a spider's web.

He peered at it closely, and he settled down to think, and to wait.

Water sounded somewhere deep in the darkness, a steady _drip, drip_ that sometimes faded out. He stayed there in the Chamber for a time, and then, after much contemplation, he decided it was true. No one—not even the Basilisk—drew breath there any longer. So he left.

The light fled his passing. He would have thought it strange, had he reflected on it longer. After so much time in a dazed fog, he had come to think of darkness as second nature. Tom went to the dungeons, where the chill lingered. He shook with it, and he looked for the signs he would recognize- but even there, he had the sense that something was not quite right.

"Open." he said to the Slytherin door, but it did not. He scowled at it. Again, he settled where none might find him, and he thought long into the night. He was not recognized, and the door which ought _only answer to him_ was set to bar him entry. The very notion sent a chill down his spine.

_"Where are you?"_ he said in the language of snakes, but nothing answered. He tried one last time to reach the Basilisk.

Instead, he felt _something_, some phantom pain, some pull on his very being. It was as though his heart was drawn away, shoving at the barriers he'd placed to guard himself. For the first time in a very long time, Tom Riddle felt a trickle of fear.

He wondered if it was the sensation of coming in, and for an instant, he thought of possession. But there could be no _demon_ more clever and cunning than the Heir of Slytherin. Not possession then, but some sort of summoning.

…but who would dare to summon _him?_

He felt the hair on his neck stand up. Surely, Dumbledore had learned the truth of his involvement in the Chamber, and would soon compromise his position. He cursed the Mudblood girl for having the gall to die just before the hidden entrance of his greatest discovery.

…

But Dumbledore made no move other than the summons, if it was, in fact, Dumbledore. And so Tom was left to the dark.

For a while, he couldn't sleep; the darkness that had been a cover seemed filled with unknown threats, and the murky silence he was left in seemed to drown out everything. Fear, and that sense-of-not-being-alone pressed on his mind. It stalked him like a relentless beast on the hunt.

He swore he could hear the phantom voice, see glimpses—inexplicably of classrooms filled with faces that he couldn't place. Unfamiliar determination lingered there, but was it his? It seemed so different from his cool, driving desire.

Finally, he began to walk other halls, searching for a glimpse of these unfamiliar people. A glimpse through his own eyes rather than through the strange connection. For hours, he wandered, through what seemed a clouded reflection of the halls he had known.

Everything was gray. Until he realized—admitted, perhaps—that he himself was _not_ as he remembered. Tom remembered a youthful body yet untried, still not fully grown, but with a talent for magic few could match.

This lack of wand proved it.

He was not possessed. He was some sort of wandering spirit.

With the realization came the memories. _Green. Black. Grey. A woman's scream, a high pitched voice. Echoes of conversations not directed at him. _

Very well. He no longer had a body. So, Tom reasoned, he would have to _get_ one.

.  
.

.  
The girl had seemed the best choice, at first. She responded to his presence most noticeably. Once, he caught her gaze in a bathroom mirror, but she looked away. Then she froze, standing stalk still.

"Tom?" she whispered, going white. So white that her freckles stood out like drops of blood against her pale, creamy skin. Her heart fluttered dangerously fast, and her lips were red, red, against her face.  
_"Yes."_ Tom purred, giving her a charming smile.

She looked away. Then she took a calm, steadying breath, and didn't see him any longer. "It isn't real." she said firmly.

He was denied his existence, and he suffered for it. His vision went out like smoke, and sounds echoed loudly through him, reverberating against his chest and wrenching his concentration. He was lost, wandering between the grounds he had loved as a child.

Time was strange. It was like looking through the eyes of a serpent, with no real concept of time or schedule.

Until he found the Boy. The Boy couldn't see him, but he felt him. He rubbed at a scar on his forehead, and Tom had that sense of _sharing_ again. The fear and revulsion mingled with Tom's curiosity, with Tom's Need for power.

"Who's there? I'm warning you."

Tom watched, and went closer.

The Boy stepped back and drew his wand with one fluid motion.

"Harry? Hurry up—it's almost curfew." A girl with a bossy tone reached for the Boy. For Harry.

Harry shook his head and rubbed at his forehead, where Tom noted a lightning shaped scar. The boy was distracted, and he said nothing. Green eyes glossed over.

"Harry. Can you hear me, Harry?" Tom said slowly, focusing on the name while reaching for a source of power familiar to him, even from before Hogwarts. Tom would speak, and Harry would answer.

Harry's eyes went out of focus, but he didn't respond.

Very well. Tom clenched down on the unfamiliar feeling of angry disappointment. He would wait, and he would study the boy. Once he found an opening…. Harry would be his.

**(HARRY POV)**

* * *

- - **X** - -

When Harry awoke, the world was spinning. He wondered if everything sounded as though it echoed, when you were listening from the back of your own mind. His eyes were opening, but who was looking out?

"Harry?" It was a girl... "Harry! Was it Tom?" her voice was soft, insistent, and terrified.

"What…?" Harry nearly banged his head into Ginny when he realized it was he who controlled his vocal cords, and not Tom Marvolo Riddle. Or at least, he didn't think so. "What?"

She stared at him anxiously, unable to speak any longer.

The full impact of her words registered finally, and Harry hastily added, "No! No, of course not. It wasn't that."

Some of the anxiety fell away from her as though it were a physical thing. She took a shuddering breath, and her soft brown eyes focused. "Harry? Try not to move. I'll…I'll go get Madam Pomfrey. Do you remember what happened?"

Harry did remember. There was blood first, but that wasn't nearly so terrible as facing the ghost alone in the dark. He remembered the high, mocking laughter, the cold, those eyes, and the feeling of being watched. "Someone was…"

"Harry, your nose is bleeding." Ginny interrupted. "And I think…your eyes…I don't think you should move."

Harry's eyes darted around the bathroom, some of his senses coming back to him. Dread, fear, and anger battled for dominance. "I can walk." He said stubbornly. He didn't want to be left alone in the bathroom. "What time is it?"

Ginny stared at him, uncomprehending.

"I'll go to the infirmary on my own. It'll…it'll look worse if we're together. I'll…I'll go on my own, Ginny. Go back to the girls' dormitory." At Ginny's anguished look, Harry took a slow, deep breath. "I'd tell you if it was Tom. It isn't. I just…I just had a bad dream."

Ginny helped him to his feet, and her red hair tickled his cheek when she leaned in. She was so warm, so alive. Her small hands were strong for her size, and she clutched at him even when he was leaning away.

"I'll just be going." he muttered.

"Harry," Ginny said quietly, "please…"

Harry shook his head. "Don't worry about it. Go back to sleep." Despite a now raging headache, he took steps in the right direction.

Her hands sagged, falling to her side like collapsed birds. "I…"

He shrugged away impatiently. "Thanks Ginny. I'm fine now."

So Ginny Weasley left.

He ducked back into the hall, heading for the library as soon as Ginny was gone. In the abandoned corridors, he wiped off the worst of the blood, and straightened his robes over his pajamas. He trudged the well-worn path unthinkingly, and at last, he arrived.

In the library, Harry trembled, trying to walk calmly so as not to let the librarian notice his state of dress (particularly that he was in stocking feet rather than shoes). It'd be worst, he supposed, if she noticed the blood, though.

But the library was empty. Mrs. Pince was still in bed, and it seemed as though the whole of Hogwarts was asleep except for him and Ginny. He didn't bother wondering how the doors had opened, or why the candles were lit.

"…there must be thousands of books here," Harry muttered to himself. "Without Hermione, where am I even supposed to start?"

Harry thought back to the first year. It had taken them weeks…or was it months…? To find mention of Flamel, without knowing more than a name. And in the end, it was coincidence that gave them the answer they sought. With a homicidal ghost following his every movement, Harry doubted he had even weeks to solve the problem. But the library was always the first defense. It just seemed like the best place to start.

Harry sighed, and went to find a book…hopefully one on ghosts, possession, and exorcism…

…if he could get it before the library opened properly, that would be even better.

**・・X・・**

* * *

...tbc...

So...if you could, inspire me...write a comment!


	3. exorcism rituals

Thank you to minidraken~ you write lovely reviews, and even lovelier stories. For you? I will write more. :D

Thanks to CNGB, this has been betaed. Yay!

**Possible trigger warning**: self harm and dark ritual. Not graphic, but still there.

・・X・・

* * *

**_Exorcism rituals_ **  
_Thunk._ a loud noise interrupted Harry's searching.

"Hey. I didn't see you in breakfast!" Hermione breathed from behind a stack of legal papers. "Ron said he'd get—"

"—Fred and George to save you some toast. Morning Harry." Ron gave Harry an irritated look. "Where you been?"

"Nowhere." Harry said quickly. "Just…getting a head start." He nodded in what he hoped was a convincing manner at Hermione's stack. And as he had half hoped, was immediately handed a portion of it. He maneuvered it to hide the most promising tome on possession.

The book would wait underneath all those documents until he had a chance to look at it privately. In the meanwhile, he had to get rid of Hermione and Ron to do so.

Harry felt his eyes sliding from the texts several times, and his head tilting to the side. He couldn't decide whether to claim sleepiness or stomach ache to get out—or to subtly suggest they go away? But then again, bed and the nurse's office would leave his books unguarded. No…it'd be best if he could stash the books so he could come back to them later. Best, though, if Ron and Hermione left on their own.

…but out-waiting Hermione in the library was like challenging a dragon on its own territory. Not recommended unless you had a distraction planned.

_Ah._ Harry thought to himself. _I could always go pretend to be looking for materials and read over there…_ With that thought, he grabbed the thickest tome and a stack of papers, wandering off with a quiet, "I'm going to go cross-reference these…"

Ron scowled at him, but Hermione only nodded busily.

Harry nodded shakily, and ducked out of sight.

Out of their immediate vicinity and a few corners later, Harry sat down in the most inconspicuous nook he could find. He settled back against the rows of books, and cast one worried glance behind him. Sitting between the rows of books might get him in trouble with Pince, but he might have to risk it….

He took a deep breath and opened the book. The library was filled with a golden glow of torchlight and candlelight; exactly the opposite of what Harry had imagined when he'd find his answer. The book was just what he needed. He traced his finger down the pages of it, feeling the smooth dryness and uneven parchment. He took a deep breath, and began to read:

_Exorcising potentially violent spirits should never be attempted alone, or in places with known violent spirits. The following ritual is for reference sake, written in times of antiquity when knowing about Dark Magic was more trendy than sensible._

Harry read the words and felt a thrill of elation-drive the spirit out. It was exactly what he needed. He hastily read on.

_ The reader may notice the bloodletting, which clearly marks this ritual as one of the dark arts, and thus, casts into doubt whether it should work as a proper banishing charm at all. Also, the runes which are mentioned, and words of power and banishment are most obscure, though Wizard Humdrum lists the following runes as possibilities, and suggests the Charm and Words of Powers to be variants of shield charms and buffering spells. An older, Gaelic source suggests the names of powerful spirits and gods as the words of power, and requires certain potions be made. The trees are meant to be worn as a crown, or in a grove, with the proper trees forming a circle. It may be noted..._

Harry stopped reading the lengthy paragraph in favor for the list of runes and gods.

He studied it, wondering if he could copy it well enough to work. Fidgeting, he recalled that Hermione was taking Ancient Runes...maybe he could get her to copy them out right, and let that paper stand for that bit. For now, he would work on finding something silver to transfigure into a bowl.

Maybe he could mail-order one somehow...or sneak one from Trelawney. She might have one. Thinking of this made Harry smile a little—there'd finally be a bit of use to be had from her class. He scribbled a bit on the parchment he had on the side—a half circle and the word _silver_. Then he started to tap the paper, thinking about the other parts of the ritual…

His hand pricked suddenly. Harry flexed his fingers and casually wiped away a bit of ink, he and remembered another parchment. Smudged ink on the creamy pages of a diary before it sank into nothing…and reformed again into spidery, delicate copperplate.

How could Tom Riddle have escaped the diary? The diary which destroyed the memory…Basilisk poison…how was this even happening? He frowned, chewing his lip.

"Harry?" Hermione called from the end of the table. "I wanted to do a bit of a conference. Share what we've found for Buckbeack's defense. Ron's waiting in the Common Room—let's go up and have a talk."

It was later than he'd thought. Harry hastily shoved things into a pile, grabbed the parchment necessary for the ritual, and pulled a smile on. "Right." When everything was where it was supposed to be (and out of Hermione's watchful eye), he nodded. "Shall we?"

Hermione smiled, and off they went.

* * *

Night had come again all too quickly, and Harry made his excuses. He went to the place the Death-day party had been held, that damp, solitary place underground. He'd set up the ritual, and began with a single cut.

There was too much blood.

More than the tiny, transfigured bowl could hold. Harry hadn't meant for it to be more than a shallow prick on his wrist, but the knife was spelled—part of the ritual—and it slipped in his hands…its bite was deep. Harry tensed his legs, leaning backwards into the circle, uncertain. Could he_stop?_ What would _too much_ blood do, strictly ritual speaking? Harry was fairly certain he wouldn't bleed to death, but would it ruin the ceremony?

Harry pulled back in on himself, thinking rapidly while trying _not_ to think at all, to act as though the answer was already his. His best responses to threats were always instinctive—surely this would be the case now.

The sound of Tom chuckling behind him caused him to jerk, and little dots of blood sprinkled onto the floor.

Warmth spread down his neck, followed swiftly by chills. Harry looked around for the memory of the boy briefly, but then he stopped- waited. The spellbook had said not to make unnecessary contact. It'd said to clear the mind first, and then—

No, that was another spell. Harry frantically glanced down at the parchment he'd prepared, and his eyes blurred.

"Harry…" Tom's voice snaked through the now dimmed, cold air. His eyes shown through the mist, and he reached out two elegant hands…to strangle or caress? There was an odd look in Tom's eye.

He had to finish it. Finish the ritual, and get _rid_ of him. Before something happened—before anyone noticed.

"Do it." Tom said. "If you think you _can._"

_He's mocking me._ Harry thought, detached. _Does he want me to do it or not? Should I? _Can_ I?_

He raised the knife, directed it as though it were a wand, and let it drop into the air—there was a tiny whirling noise, and then, inches before the hard stone floor, it stopped. Hung where it had almost landed, and began to slowly spin widdershins.

Harry's eyes followed the blade and then darted around the room; he held his breath and counted to seven as the spell suggested, all while looking for a hint of the ghost. Swiftly, he pulled out his wand as he began to say the names of the runes and drew them in the air. His runes were not as well balanced as those in the textbook, and writing in the air instead of scrawling on parchment was more difficult than he thought. Nevertheless, the runes glowed.

He'd done it. Relief settled his heart, and he hastily went on with the ritual.

Harry stumbled over the old fashioned words, but he managed them well enough. "Walk not here, spirit! Be gone from my sight. I cast you out!"

Instant silence, and the world stopped for a heartbeat.

The air around him shifted as though in a strong breeze, and the runes shimmered where he'd written them. The unbalanced lines seemed to quiver harder than the others before they shook where they were. Harry glanced down at the paper, uncertain. Was that supposed to happen?

There was a rippling noise, something like hearing the sound of someone talking from underwater...or like Tom's voice wasn't reaching him as easily as before. Harry chewed his lip as the noise faded. The room was still, and quiet.

Harry let out a slow breath. He looked around again, studying the shadows with all the intensity he could muster. When not a thing twitched, he allowed a tiny, satisfied smile, and called the knife with a quick, "Up!"

The thing started to rise in a smooth fashion, just as his broom would have. Harry watched it carefully, eying the blade. He'd grasp it just so— The knife flew into his hand, and Harry made the final flicks with his wand and knife in turn. The ceremony was over, successful or not.

There was an unearthly shriek and a cold rush of wind as something barreled down on him—it came so fast, and so close that all Harry could make out was a sense of flaking paint on wood. Hands reached out, but didn't touch.

Harry leaned back, and something switched in his mind. It was like he was in a Quidditch game, and the threat was some bizarrely costumed opponent. Things seemed to move slower, now, and Harry could see his assailant for what it was. He saw a gaping mouth, and two wickedly curved horns—a sort of mask. Tom was wearing a mask. _He can touch things now, then?_ The thought was so absurd, Harry nearly froze to the spot.

Tom's laughter was like the sound of branches scraping against stone. The chamber shook with it, and the darkness closed in briefly. When the torches flared with life, Tom reached down for Harry—his fingers extended as if to touch Harry's face.

This time, Harry held out his wand. "Expecto Patronum!" (*) He yelled, determination and some wild, unidentifiable feeling coloring his happy memory.

A feeling of triumph and adrenalin pumped through Harry as Tom's form flickered and dissipated before the silvery cloud of smoke.

He hissed as the feeling of pain (now both in his wrist and forehead). "You couldn't touch _me_before—and you can be cast off by a patronus since it's pure happiness!" Harry taunted. The silence rang on.

He took a deep, if somewhat shaky breath and slowly collected his things.

Yet as the silvery smoke dissipated , something cold splashed his neck. _Drip. ._ The cold stuff was thin and chill as iced water, but the tracks it left on his skin burned hot after it touched. Harry jerked out of the way.

"…it's nothing." Harry breathed. He turned away before fleeing the space.

Unbeknownst to the boy, something stirred in the room's only mirror. Harry had opted to leave the mirror covered during the ceremony, so he didn't see the motion there. A faint reflection rippled, and took the form of a pale student with vividly glowing eyes. Tom Riddle's ghost waited.

_The blood in the dish may prove useful…._ he thought. Harry would be seeing Tom in a much more defenseless, intimate light very soon…

The very walls of the castle itself despaired. Tom Riddle's ghost had broken something faint and subtle, and the whole of the castle would soon know what havoc his desire would bring.

_Soon._ he thought. _Soon._

・・X・・

* * *

tbc...

Review! Thanks for reading~


	4. Tom be subtle, Harry be quick

**Chapter 4:** _Dreamtime words: Tom be subtle, Harry be quick. _

"I can't believe this," Hermione huffed. "Harry, what were you researching yesterday? I mean Humdrum's work on creature trials is basic stuff!" Her exasperation was palpable as she glared daggers at her classmates.

"Humdrum?" Harry sat up a little straighter. "What's Humdrum got to do with Buckbeak?"

"Not Humdrum, Strandum, Harry." Hermione corrected.

Ron groaned and leaned his head on a stack of books. "What does it matter- the trial isn't until spring! Let's get out of the library and enjoy the season, Hermione! Who can blame Harry for not listening to some rot about manticors… _they_ deserved what they got. Can't we find anything about hippogriffs?"

Hermione fixed Ron with a stern glare. "If you really feel that way, Ronald, I don't see how someone with such a lack of empathy could—"

"Look, I'm sorry, Hermione. . ."Harry cut her off, rubbing at his scar absentmindedly. "I'm just not feeling well. Could we just take this a little slower?"

Both Ron and Hermione were frowning at him now, Hermione with concern, and Ron with a vaguely interested look at his scar.

"Harry is your scar—" Hermione started.

"Wicked, is You-Know-Who hanging about the library? That settles it, Hermione, we need to get out of doors," Ron was saying. "Get some brooms, you know?" He trailed off at Harry's expression. "You all right?"

Harry shook his head, touching his wrist gently. "Um."

Hermione's expression went from annoyed to slightly panicked in a matter of seconds. "It isn't Black, is it? You haven't gotten any…notes, have you? No hints or—"

"It isn't Black." Harry said through gritted teeth. "Why don't we go outside, like you said?" He offered Ron a conspiratorial look.

Ron didn't buy it. "Something's wrong, isn't it? You can't _not_ tell us, Harry. It isn't really, is it? You said you weren't felling well…it's not like with Quirrel. Is it?"

"Um, err… more like with Riddle." Harry drew backwards and away from his friends, expecting a barrage of questions that didn't come. Their surprised, stricken faces made him feel guilty and defensive all at once. "I've been having these…hauntings or something. I think." He swallowed hard. "I think he's back…but nobody else can see or hear him. I mean, even I couldn't hear him until well, until lat night. I saw him, and could hear him…whisper things."

Hermione drew in her breathe and began to speak rapidly. "Did you tell Dumbledore or one of the professors? Harry, you _know_ what Riddle is—who he became. This is serious!"

Harry held up his hands as though holding off the torrent of words. "I know, I know. But I wasn't sure what it _was_ and I thought it could be anything…or that I was possessed or something. I know I should have told someone now, but at the time it didn't seem like an option. Until last night." He ran a hand through his hair unhappily.

"You keep saying _last night._" Ron's brows furrowed. "Well, what happened?"

With his two best friends looking at him, Harry's guilt felt like a cold stone in his stomach. "You see," Harry began slowly, "I noticed him once, right? And so I did some research in the library..." he snuck a glance at Hermione, but that little explanation didn't seem to appease her one bit.  
He rushed to continue. "So, I got this book. It mentioned _Humdrum._..and a charm. A ritual, it said."

Ron's face went white. He seemed struck dumb with that pronouncement.

"What kind of ritual, Harry?" Hermione asked slowly.

"Dunno..." Harry shrugged, nonchalant. "So anyway, I did it, and I thought it worked, but it turned out it didn't, and..." he trailed off. Ron was starting to get his breath back, and looked ready to shout over Harry if he didn't shut up.

"_Ritual_ magic? As in _dark_, ritualistic magic? Have you gone nutters or what?" He shook his head. "The first thing you should know, Harry, is not to do rituals you don't know anything about. You didn't, um, hurt yourself...did you?"

"Let me see your wrist," Hermione said, holding out her hand in a decisive manner that reminded Harry of Madam Pomfrey.

"Blimey, you didn't, you know, cut yourself did you?" Ron's eyes were wide, his face stiff with something like fright.

Harry shifted uneasily in his seat. "It sounded like the right thing to do." Harry muttered, averting his gaze. He looked dimly at the spot he'd been reading before, belatedly wondering where he'd gotten the book. "I can't remember the title, but it said it was used for banishing spirits...devils. For casting them out."

Hermione snatched Harry's hand up when he still didn't offer, and she carefully undid the bandage with quick, deft movements.

"My blood is what kept Voldemort from touching me in first year," he said in a small voice.

"It was your _touch_, mate! That's what Quirrel couldn't touch."  
Ron shook his head, his voice getting higher with each word. "I mean, dark rituals...they can bleed you dry without really meaning to."

"It's a little red...but I don't see anything obvious..." Hermione chewed her lip. "You probably ought to show Madam Pomfrey just to be safe...If those rituals are as dangerous as I've read about...Harry, you could have risked your life."

"It wasn't dark!" Harry snapped. "It was..." he struggled to remember the words. "It was a ceremony used when..." he faltered. "...used when knowing _about_ the dark arts was ...'more trendy than sense...'" he stopped. "That doesn't mean it's dark. Does it?"

His friends exchanged worried glances, but didn't answer.

"So, I don't think it worked. Riddle just laughed...but," he added reflectively, "he didn't follow me back to the Tower. I don't want to tell anyone about this...they'll think I'm cracking up! Or worse, that I somehow summoned Riddle, or lied about him disappearing...We can deal with this. Everyone thinks I can't take care of myself because of Black, but..." Harry's expression clouded over, and Hermione and Ron didn't say anything for a while.

"Maybe we ought to tell someone." Hermione said softly. "I mean, not that I don't think you _could_ handle a fight, but...Harry, this is a ghost. Or a curse. We don't know anything about that..."

Harry pressed the cut on his wrist experimentally, and it throbbed. It wasn't entirely unfamiliar...Harry was sure he'd cut himself before similarly. "We can't tell anyone." he insisted.

Ron sighed. "...why? What's the _worst_ that could happen, Harry?"

"They could lock me up in a mental hospital. They could close Hogwarts on account of the Chamber _not_ being closed. They could think that Riddle has possessed me and if we can't stop it, everyone will know. Everyone is always talking about me— something like that would, well, I might have to leave the wizarding world all together."

Hermione and Ron exchanged terse glances, and slowly nodded. "We won't tell anyone for now, Harry. But if we can't find a solution, or if things get worse..."

Harry felt his shoulders sag with relief. "Right..." he smiled. "Ok then. We can handle this...we always have before." Harry was bright in his reevaluation of the situation, and some of the guilt and anxiety slipped away. "So...what kind of books should we look for now?"

In the Hogwarts library surrounded by his friends, everything seemed back to normal. They would research, and find a solution. Tom Riddle would be just a memory…

Harry started, and refocused. Feeling slightly guilty, he listened to Hermione's recitation of the books, vowing to concentrate.

.

* * *

.

Harry dreamed.

In his dream, he was alone. This was not an unusual thing, and though it made Harry lonely, he understood what he must do. He walked through the dreamscape (a sort of underground castle built into a hill) toward the forest. He knew there was something waiting for him there, though he could not yet name it.

There was little noise in the dream. Dreams were usually quiet places.

'_Come._' the wind shrieked.

The keening whistle took Harry by surprise. He whirled around to try and spot the source, but there was not much to see—the leafy, green trees, which had let the golden sunlight seep through parted leaves, had gone bare. The great aspen trunks were strange, sickly things, grayish and figured in an almost sketchy way.

_Was that laughter?_ Harry wondered. The wind continued to titter.

From the dark forest, he heard, "Sit with me. Let's talk." Tom's face appeared among the branches of the trees, pale and white as the aspen.

This struck Harry as very strange. He had the idea that he was meant to be looking for something…maybe following something? Nothing so obvious as a white rabbit, but something, just the same. He was meant to explore the landscape, not sit and talk. When Harry looked back at the boy, Tom was lazily lowering himself on spider's threads. That pulled at a memory, but in a dream, such things are fleeting.

"There's nowhere to sit." Not on a black floor that looked like a trapdoor, anyway.

"Come now. Really? We can sit here." Tom gestured, and there was a ghostly outline of something. A sofa, he saw, that was rather similar to the ones found in the common rooms at school. But this one was a pearly gray…somehow more luminescent than their surroundings.

"Are you my white rabbit?" Harry asked. He did not hesitate any longer, and stepped into the range of dirtied light. "I'm meant to be following something."

Tom's smile was slow, but it transformed his face. Before, he'd looked serious…devious and ageless as the time between true dawn and night. Now, his smile softened him, and he was the picture of charm. "You're meant to talk to me."

"About what?" Harry inquired, taking a step closer. "Are you going to give me a riddle?" He paused a moment as Tom stared. "To tell me which way to go?"

Tom regarded Harry, and some of the humor in his expression faded. "Your dreams…" he coughed lightly, "are...interesting…Harry. Is this what you want to run away from, or what you're running for? Or have you gone and changed everything, now that I'm here as a guest?" He gestured at the landscape.

Harry's scar began to tingle and prick. Some of his waking awareness returned to him with those words, and Harry felt his mind and tongue return to him fully. He was less a player in a game than he was himself, preparing to cast out a—

-and there was Tom's hand, gently touching his knee. "Be at ease. I cannot hurt you here. Nor would I wish to. Tell me about yourself? And maybe….the other one." He frowned, and long fingers tapped the source of his discomfort, and for a moment, the pain went away.

"I am the Boy." Harry said simply. "That's all there is to know."

"Yes…." Tom agreed. "You are…the Boy…the Boy Who Lived, yes?"

"That too. I'm not sure which one's worse." Harry muttered.

"What do you mean, love?" The word sounded careful, practiced. So too, was the way Tom curved his fingers to brush the hair out of Harry's eyes. That was what told him that this was all a lie—the surface of a mirror, not the thing that he sought at all.

"Shut up!" Harry shouted. Suddenly they were both standing on opposite ends of a field, a forest clearing. Smoking ruins of Hogwarts and winter trees surrounded them like pale spectators while the hills towered around them. "You're Tom Riddle. Voldemort. Get out of my head! I won't let you—"

Tom looked around. "You think you know so much about me," he remarked again, "but really, you don't know a thing. Let ustalk Harry Potter. I wish for us to talk."

"I don't care!" Harry roared, and the landscape shook. His dream was very dark, as though someone had drawn a blanket over the moon, but he could still sense things.

"No, you wouldn't. Why should you?" Riddle paced forward like a caged animal. "What do you think I am? A piece of the whole monster? A fragment of evil?" He laughed, and the sound was cruel, but it was real—not a charade at all. "Why do you privilege me of being more than human, relentless in your hatred, when you forgive so much more of others?"

Harry mumbled, "you did it to yourself." His heart thudded in his chest. "Whatever you did to that diary, _Tom,_you did it to yourself."

Actual irritation marred Tom's perfect composure. He snarled a little. "And heaven foresaketh the fool who took the wrong path…the path less taken. But I'm mixing my metaphors." Tom looked away briefly, and when he returned his gaze, his expression was fixed again. "How do you know I did it to myself? I'm just a memory…and I don't remember being made. Making myself?"

Harry was silent.

"I could help you." Tom continued. "You could help me. Isn't that what you want?"

"You killed my _parents._" Harry insisted.

"That wasn't me." Tom cocked his head, looking at Harry in fascination.

"I don't believe this!" A silvery shape drifted in and out of the trees in the distance, a patronus, Harry thought, but the form was unclear. _Don't let it be a snake. Don't let it be a snake._ But even in Harry's dreams, he couldn't cast the spell. Some cold and unhappy memory kept it from forming properly.

"Why do you think a failed patronus would work on me, Harry? You even already tried it," Tom's smiling face shone in the semi-darkness.

In the dream, Harry was above his anger. He felt it twitching just under the surface, and knew it was too far away to touch him. "You abhor the light. Everything about it. Especially love...so why not goodness? Happiness?" He shrugged, thinking back to essays he'd never gotten the hang of. Was that enough of an answer?

Tom's smile vanished. "Your patronus failed, Harry," he snapped viciously. Harry thought, bemused, that anger on Tom Riddle was like a guttering candle... eventually, it would put them in the dark.

But then the icy smile was back, and the light returned to him. "What do you know of me?" Tom's voice was silky. "What do you mean...about love? You couldn't know such a thing."

While Harry regarded him, trying to think of an answer that he hadn't already given, the wind stirred. '_The kiss of loneliness is soft, long and bitter with regret._'

"I suppose." Tom whispered, seemingly responding to the voice. He looked away, unable to shake the feeling that something was not right. "It's because I've never heard of anyone who could love you. Love is your enemy."

Tom began to scan the changed scenery, his dark eyes moving furiously across the dreamscape. When he turned back to Harry, his gaze was placid. He couldn't be more than half-listening to the words he half-hissed, half-breathed. "There was damn little of me left in the diary." He muttered. "Whatever was there…"

Harry stopped him. "There's something coming." He said dully. "The bones in the forest never rest…" he looked off, his hands grasping for a wand that was never there. Not while sleeping.

"It's a dream." Tom reminded him. "You don't need to fight it. Stay with me, Harry Potter. Talk with me."

Harry shook his head. "The white wind stripped him of his face. Before," his tongue was dry, his eyes darting with nervous excitement. "Before, it ran…" Shambled, really, but Harry only sort of understood that word. Its face was a cold, slow, death mask. Where it looked, nothing reflected back, and speech had always come difficult to it. "There's smoke rolling off the hills."

"Fog." Tom corrected, interest coloring his voice. "Do you always dream of this, Harry?" he asked again as the earth trembled and the air crackled.

"No." Harry replied, getting to his feet. His face flickered, and Tom noticed a glimmer of light within. His boyish features blurred, and Tom thought he might have seen the man he would be. Might have seen the Boy that he had. "I never remember either." He spoke very matter-of-factly, as though it were common enough.

The ghostly figure began to move. The form solidified as Harry watched its progress, taking on a not-quite human appearance.

Tom gasped as he recognized what stood before them. It was the shattered remains…of himself.

* * *

tbc…

feedback would be greatly appreciated.


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